We'll Meet Again
by The Irish Chauffeur
Summary: Danny Branson, Robert Crawley, and Max Schonborn, first cousins and the very best of friends; so much so that their doting parents named them "The Three Musketeers". Set during the early years of the Second World War. While all about them dissolves into chaos and darkness, the knowledge that one day they will meet again helps keep the young men focused on living for the future.
1. Chapter 1

We'll Meet Again

Chapter One

_Adlestrop_

**Old Montague Street, Whitechapel, London, England, 10th May 1941.**

Barely ten months had elapsed since the marriage between Max Schönborn and Claire Barton.

Their lovemaking had undoubtedly moved on apace from those first, pleasurable, slightly awkward sexual encounters. The early, eager, earnest attempts by both of them to try and please the other, to reach the stage at which they both were now, that being a blissfully happy state of contented, settled familiarity. Nonetheless, each was more than willing to continue experimenting, exploring further, to find hitherto un-dreamed ways of giving the other physical pleasure. After all, as Max had said several times, quoting his late grandmother, Cora, Dowager Countess of Grantham:

"When two people love each other, then everything is the most terrific fun".

An observation with which Max and Claire concurred wholeheartedly.

And, because the two of them were so utterly secure in their love for each other, it mattered not which of them took the lead; Max being more than content for Claire to show she wanted him; while for her part Claire was just as happy if Max showed his need of her. As had been the case earlier tonight, when, with modesty between them long since being a thing of the past, coming in search of Claire, Max had wandered, stark naked, into the kitchen of their shabby, second floor flat here on Old Montague Street, in Whitechapel, in the East End of London.

* * *

"Max! Yes! Oh! Yes! There! Yes! There! I love you! I love you!"

With the physical sensations coursing through her body, Claire found herself wanting the impossible: that this one moment should last forever. All the same, she sought to prolong it, by turns, clutching, moaning, arching herself against Max, her nails raking the damp skin of his back, tangling in his hair. Now clasped her arms around his neck, tightened the grip of her legs about him, drawing him in yet deeper still.

A short while later, and Claire was nearing the point of her release. Knew from the quickened pace of Max's breathing that it was the same for him too. And then when it happened, they came together, Claire screaming Max's name, as he spilled himself inside her.

* * *

Yet, however abiding and deep their love was for each other, both Claire and Max were very well aware that because of his haemophilia, however much they might wish it otherwise, things were as they were, and it was unthinkable that they should run the risk of Claire falling pregnant which, given their appetite for the sexual side of their marriage, would no doubt have happened long since. So in order to avoid this, given Max's inexperience with and dislike of using condoms, and coitus interruptus not being a viable option, Claire had solved the problem for them, some time ago in fact, by the simple expedient of the fitting of a coil.

* * *

Now happy and sated, they also came down together.

"I love you, Max! I love you so very much!"

"Ich liebe dich so sehr, Liebling!"

Max smothered Claire's face with kisses, before rolling off her, then straightaway pulling her close. A moment later and he felt Claire's hand move from where it presently rested on his hip, first downwards to his thigh, and from there upwards, between his legs, seeking his manhood; Max sighing with pleasure, responding instantly to the practised touch of Claire's fingers.

And then ... the air raid siren began its all too familiar mournful wail.

"Scheiße!" yelled Max, sitting up in bed.

Unlike his Irish cousin Danny Branson, nineteen year old Max Schönborn was not given to mouthing profanities but that he did so was an indication of the frustration he felt. Now turning his head, through the chink between the shutters, Max glimpsed the pale beams of the search lights weaving back and forth across the inky blackness of the night; heard the thud of anti aircraft fire, followed quickly by the all too predictable crump of high explosives, causing the whole building to shake.

"Christ! That one was close!" Seemingly oblivious to what was happening, Claire took not the slightest notice; instead, snuggled herself in closer against Max, while outside, increasingly shot with flame, the night sky turned a fiery red, as London burned.

A moment later, there was yet another deafening explosion which, both from the noise and the shock waves that followed close upon it, came from somewhere even nearer at hand, perhaps the other side of the street. Here in the bedroom there was the sound of breaking glass as the window panes first crazed, then shattered, followed swiftly in turn by an acrid stench of burning and the unmistakable smell of gas, Max realising instantly that the mains must have gone. That, in itself, rather settled things; leaving Claire and he no alternative but to quit the snug, warm sanctuary of their bed, dress in the dark as quickly as they could, and then seek the comparative safety of the communal air raid shelter which stood further down the street.

* * *

**Downton Station, West Riding, Yorkshire, England, July 1941.**

Wreathed in steam, the last train of the day from Ripon drew slowly to a stop along side the unlit platform.

Here in the grimy, unkempt surroundings of a Third Class compartment, the paintwork chipped and scuffed, the upholstery sagging and faded, and the mesh of the luggage racks frayed and threadbare, Max stood up and pulled down hard on the droplight. Leaning out of the window, half hoping to see Papa and Mama, he glanced up and down the length of the platform, only to find that it was completely deserted; devoid even of railway staff.

Not that Max himself was unduly surprised. After all, petrol was in short supply, and it was now very late in the evening, their long journey having been beset with the usual problems encountered when travelling anywhere by train in wartime England: repeated delays and cancellations, each with little or no notice. The poster, produced by a body, grandly calling itself _The Railway Executive_, plastered skew-whiff to one of the station notice boards, rather said it all:

IS YOUR JOURNEY REALLY NECESSARY?

The answer to which, thought Max, was, yes.

This on account of the appalling news they had received, first from Ireland where, at the end of May, Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil's thirteen year old son, Bobby, one of Max's cousins, had been killed in an air raid on Dublin. Presumably, thought Max, his dearly loved cousin Danny, Bobby's elder brother, now living with his Spanish girl friend, Carmen, and their little boy, on the infinitely remote Portuguese island of Madeira, far out in the Atlantic Ocean, would not yet have learned what had happened there on Dublin's Northside, when, whether by accident or by design, the Germans had bombed the capital city of neutral Ireland, killing nearly thirty people, among them young Bobby Branson.

And then had come the dreadful news from Downton where, but a week or so ago, Granny Cora had been killed, when a burning German bomber had crashed down on the Dower House, incinerating both its crew and everyone inside the house. Everything else apart, given Max's work for the SOE and Claire's medical studies, they had been unable to attend the funeral, this being the first opportunity they had had to travel back to Downton since their elopement last summer.

* * *

Made possible by the money which Robert, with Saiorse's blessing, had given them, even if Max insisted it was only a loan, and with Robert as his Best Man, Max and Claire's wedding had taken place in September 1940, in the ancient church of All Hallows By The Tower, London. Now, that centuries old church was nothing more than a gaunt, blackened shell; yet another of the historic buildings in the capital obliterated in the firestorm of destruction wrought upon London by Herr Hitler's Luftwaffe in what was being called the Blitz. Something which both Max and Claire themselves had experienced at first hand, living where they now did, in the heavily bombed out East End of London.

Then, not long after Max had been discharged from St. Thomas's Hospital following a lengthy and painful blood transfusion, the result of an injury to his knee, and but a couple of months after their wedding, had come the dreadful news that Robert had been shot down over France. That had been eight months ago, and, despite still being listed as missing, presumed killed, everyone in the family had come to terms with the fact that, in all probability, Robert was dead.

And now, so too, were both darling Bobby and Granny Cora.

* * *

Their journey, up here to Yorkshire, from far distant London, had been both long and tiring: the trains, save for this one, the final one of the day from Ripon, being dirty, overcrowded, and slow; a shadow of what the service had once been in the days before the war. Or, so Claire had told Max. And since one of her three brothers, Edward, was a railwayman, a signalman, at the country station down in Devonshire where Claire and Max had first met, Max supposed that there must be a very great deal of truth in that.

* * *

Having read the poster produced by _The Railway Executive,_ it was at this point that Max's tummy rumbled; reminding him, embarrassingly so, of the fact that neither Claire nor he had had much to eat since breakfast; that eaten at a very early hour, before they had taken the Underground into London, there to catch the train northwards from King's Cross. Thereafter, they had to make do with the round of cheese and pickle sandwiches that Claire had made up the previous night, along with two apples, and a thermos of lukewarm tea; both taking it in turns to drink from the single cup. And that had been all. Well, almost. Save for what had been called a Chelsea bun - clearly the ersatz variety had observed Max - and yet another cup of stewed tea, this time taken in the dingy Refreshment Rooms on York station where they had changed trains for the umpteenth time today.

* * *

**Drawing Room, Downton Abbey, earlier that same evening.**

"Darling, the truth of it is, neither of them really seem to mind in the slightest. Just so long as they're together".

"There's no need to be quite so graphic about it, Edith!" Mary admonished primly. When it came to what she perceived as the raising of either matters medical or else those of a private, physical nature, Mary became uncomfortable; something in which she was truly her own father's daughter. "But, really!" Mary continued, having just learned from Edith where it was Max and Claire were now living.

Not that the name itself had meant anything to her, given that Mary's knowledge of London was decidedly sketchy. Was confined almost exclusively to places such as Belgrave, Chester or Eaton Squares in Belgravia - the district in which Aunt Rosamund had lived and where, Grantham House, the family's former residence in town, yet stood, that was if the Germans hadn't blown it to pieces. Of course, it no longer belonged to the Crawleys; having, at Matthew's insistence, been sold long since and, if reports were to be believed, turned into a third rate hotel. This being so, Mary could almost wish that if the building did still exist, that the Luftwaffe had marked it down for immediate destruction. Other than Belgravia, Mary knew, of course, of emporia such as Derry and Toms and Harrods in Kensington, or else Selfridges on Oxford Street; as well as certain of the London hotels, Claridges, the Dorchester, and the Ritz. But that was all. And, as for mixing with the hoi polloi on the Underground, as apparently Max and his wife did on a daily basis, well, really!

"Just where did you think the two of them would be staying? In a suite at Claridges?"

"No, of course not," snapped Mary.

Her nerves were frayed raw, not only by the awful business of Robert, but also by Saiorse's repeated mood swings brought about by her missing Robert dreadfully and by caring for the twins, Alexander and Sorcha, insisting that she did so on her own, as well as by all the changes wrought here at Downton by this bloody, needless war.

Then of course, had come the terrible loss of Mama, whom they had laid to rest - what little could be found of her - but a matter of days ago in the Grantham vault down at the parish church. Tom and Sybil, still mourning the death of their much loved son, Bobby, could not be present at the funeral; had sent a beautiful wreath. But while Friedrich and Edith had been present at the Burial Service - Mary thought it to have been a parochial, shabby affair - it was her considered opinion that the sudden loss of their mother seemed to have affected Edith scarcely at all.

"Well, there it is ..."

"But surely they could have afforded something better than ... Where was it you said they were living again?"

"In Whitechapel, in a second floor flat".

"Whitechapel? Dear God! Isn't that where Jack the Ripper ..."  
"Mary, that was over fifty years ago. What with all the bombing, of course Friedrich and I would much prefer them to be living somewhere else, but Max and Claire won't hear of it. They want to be independent. Shift for themselves".

"**They** do? Or **she** does?"

* * *

While Mary loved her Austrian nephew, Max Schönborn, very dearly, she still thought of him as the handsome, winning, little boy he had once been, as opposed to the equally handsome, winning, young man he now was. This apart, she had no time at all for his wife, Claire, the fair haired, freckle faced, former Miss Barton, whom Mary regarded as someone akin to a cross between a gold digger and a Devonshire version of Mata Hari. In Mary's eyes, a thoroughly unscrupulous, little hussey who had wormed her way into young Max's affections when he was at a very low ebb, believing both his mother and his younger brother Kurt to have been lost when the _Lancastria_ had been sunk off the French coast. And had then proceeded to seduce him; forcing darling Max into the unenviable position of having to do what he undoubtedly saw as the honourable thing by marrying her. To be fair, Edith herself had been of very much the same opinion; even if neither Matthew, nor indeed Friedrich, were of this view. For, as Friedrich had observed ruefully, darling Max had always known his own mind; had never been one to do anything unless he himself was willing to undertake it.

The truth was altogether something different and stemmed from how it was that Max Schönborn and Claire Barton had first met. This but scarce a year ago. On a bright summer's morning, back in June 1940, down in Devonshire, when Claire had driven a pony and trap from her parents' farm at Shute Cross, down to the little station at Wrangaton, there to meet the morning train from Plymouth. And off it, two men; a father and his son, both of them Austrian. Survivors, from the Cunard liner, _RMS_ _Lancastria_, sunk by German dive bombers close to St. Nazaire off the west coast of France. All of which Claire had been told by the son's cousin, Danny Branson, a young Irishman, who was recuperating at the farm after being beaten up and thrown off a train at Wrangaton station.

Of course, if by some miracle Claire had been told that, within the space of three months, the younger of the two men she was going to meet from off the London bound train would have become her husband, she would have scoffed at the idea. But then, Claire Barton had never believed in the notion of love at first sight.

* * *

**Wrangaton Station, Devonshire, England, 24th June 1940.**

Nothing which Danny had told Claire about his cousin could have prepared her for Max.

Of course, Danny had made mention of the fact that, throughout his life, Max had experienced serious health problems. That he had spent a lot of time in and out of hospital or else at home in bed recovering. Apparently, it was something to do with his blood; not that Danny fully understood the nature of just what it was that was wrong with Max. However, with her intention to train as a doctor, with some justification, Claire's curiosity, understandably, had been piqued. It was now, on seeing Max, that for the very first time in her life, Claire experienced the feeling of going weak at the knees and, if the truth be told, of feeling slightly lightheaded.

Standing before her in the morning sunshine, in ill-fitting clothes, obviously borrowed, with the distinct whiff about him of what Claire assumed must be engine oil, even though his left arm was in a sling, was no invalid, but a handsome, well-built young man, with sandy hair, blue eyes, and a ready smile.

For his part, Max was equally entranced by the pretty young woman standing in front of him. With her long, fair hair tied back in a plait, her sparkling blue grey eyes, her sunburned, freckled face and her equally open smile, she radiated both health and happiness. Nodding his approval, Max found himself smiling broadly.

"Fraulein," he said; his eyes alive with mirth, before a moment later taking Claire's right hand, and raising it to his lips. Letting go of her hand, Max straightened up, and this time it was Claire who smiled.

"Welcome to England," she said, never for an instant taking her eyes off his face. Then with her hand she indicated the steps leading from the platform up to the road above. "Shall we?"  
Max nodded.

Some would say that there is no such thing as love at first sight. However, if on this warm summer morning anyone had said as much to Max Schönborn or to Claire Barton, they would have profoundly disagreed.

Because, for once, it was true.

* * *

**Downton Station, West Riding, Yorkshire, evening, July 1941.**

The posts from which the station's name boards had long since been removed now caught Max's attention. He knew this had happened elsewhere on the railways, along with the uprooting of milestones and signposts from off both lanes and roads, all as a concerted effort, ordered by the government to confuse and disorientate German paratroopers should ever they land in England,

"Adlestrop," Max muttered, before ducking his head, easing himself back inside the compartment, and shoving up the window.

"Pardon?" Claire asked, looking up at him from where she was still sitting with a sheaf of papers resting in her lap; the notes from the most recent lecture she had attended the previous afternoon at the London School of Medicine, on Hunter Street, in Bloomsbury, London. At times, she could still scarcely believe their good fortune. That they were indeed man and wife. Knew that on the odd occasion Max had come to meet her after her lectures were finished for the day, his charm and good looks had drawn admiring comments.

Max smiled.

"Oh, nothing really. Just the name of a place, in Gloucestershire, I think. It's also the title of a poem Mama made me learn when I was a boy, in order to help try and improve my English. Max now quoted hurriedly from memory::

_Yes. I remember Adlestrop_

_The name, because one afternoon_

_Of heat, the express-train drew up there_

_Unwontedly. It was late June._

_The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat._

_No one left and no one came_

_On the bare platform. What I saw_

_Was Adlestrop—only the name_

Claire likewise smiled.

Taking hold of their one, rather battered, suitcase, Max opened the door of their compartment and then, having descended from the train, helped Claire down onto the platform. Ahead of them, at the far end of the station, the engine whistled self importantly, before a moment later, in a cloud of steam and smoke, hauling its two ancient coaches, it puffed off noisily into the gathering darkness.

Max turned to Claire.

"Are you nervous?"

Her answer came promptly.

"No, not a bit of it. Did you really think I would be?"

"Knowing you as I do? No. Although, after what Mama said to you, to both of us, last year ..."

"That's very sweet of you". Claire turned, reached up, and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

Max grinned shyly; ducked his head. Glanced up at the station clock. And then, as the first drops of rain began to patter down, at the rapidly darkening sky.

"Well, then," he said, offering Claire his arm, " here's no passing shower, it's getting late, and it's over a mile to walk to Crawley House ..."

**Author's Note:**

The title of this story is that of the well known wartime song, released in 1939, and later made famous by Vera Lynn.

Had Max and Claire managed to wait until the following evening, then their love-making would not have been interrupted; at least not by the Luftwaffe. 10th-11th May 1941 saw the last night of the Blitz.

The German bombing, of Dublin's Northside, on 31st May 1941 killed some 28 people, injured over 90, and caused considerable damage. The reason for the bombing remains unclear.

The infamous Jack the Ripper murders took place in Whitechapel in the late summer, early autumn, of 1888.

Established in 1874, the London School of Medicine was the first medical school in England to train women. Later, it would become part of University College, London.

The poem,_ Adlestrop,_ from which Max quotes, describes an event its author, Edward Thomas (1878-1917) one of the Great War poets, witnessed in the summer of 1914, just before the outbreak of the war, when an express train drew up unexpectedly at a small country station in Gloucestershire.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Mama

**Crawley House, Downton, Yorkshire, England July 1941.**

Edith glanced up at the clock on the mantle piece; was decidedly uncertain if the time now showing on the dial was correct.

Composed of white Carrera marble and gilt bronze, surmounted by a wingèd cherub and the elegant figure of a Classical Grecian maiden, it was an over-elaborate, French, Second Empire piece. The clock had been given to Friedrich and Edith by Mary last summer, when they and their two boys had moved into Crawley House for the duration of the war, the property having been leased to them on a peppercorn rent by Matthew. The clock had been what Mary chose at the time to call a house warming present; she reveling in her role of Lady of the Manor, or to be more precise of Lady Bountiful, dispensing her _largesse,_ to those presently in a less fortunate position than herself.

At that, Edith grimaced.

For most of its life, the ornate clock, which she remembered from her childhood - but only because of the gilt maiden and cherub - had stood on top of a chest of drawers in one of the now disused guest bedrooms at the abbey, in what before the last war with Germany had been the Bachelors' Corridor where unmarried male guests slept. From what Edith recalled Barrow saying, the clock had kept indifferent time there too. Quite how he knew this was open to speculation. But then with the late, unlamented Mr. Barrow a very great deal was open to conjecture; not least the reason for his annual trips to the fleshpots of Berlin before the war.

"Darling, is that really the time?"  
Friedrich looked up at the clock on the mantle piece and then down at the dial of his pocket watch.

"No, that one's slow. However much I keep it wound up, it always loses time. In fact, it's well after nine o'clock. Nearly half past the hour".

"**Half past**? Then where on earth are they? The last train from Ripon should have arrived at the station by now. What if they've missed it?"

"They won't have".  
"But if they have ..."

"Then Max would have telephoned to let us know. Which he hasn't. All the same, I don't doubt that there has been some problem with the trains. There always is. Especially on a long journey. After all ..." Friedrich smiled; spread his hands expansively.  
"_There is a war on_. Yes, I know. But all the same ..."

"So ...

"So, how do I feel? And you want a honest answer. To be truthful, Friedrich, I don't know quite how I feel about seeing her again. For one thing, they'll be sharing a bed here under our own roof ..."

"Darling, in case you've forgotten, they're married".

"No, I hadn't forgotten. How could I? But there's Kurt to consider. He's at an impressionable age. He's bound to notice things. And he asks questions too".

"Well, if he does, then you must give him answers. You know your trouble? You feel things far too deeply. You always have".

"Perhaps".

"You do. You know you do. What's more, you know I'm right".

"Do I? Well, maybe. Certainly where you and our boys are concerned".

"Edith, he's not a boy any longer".

"No, and more's the pity. If only I had ..."

From outside, they both now heard the grate of the rusty hinges on the front gate.

Edith breathed a sigh of relief.

"Ah, at last!" That must be them now".

* * *

**Downton, that same evening a short while earlier. **

While neither of them knew Downton well, it was indeed as Max had told Claire: more than a mile to walk to Crawley House from the railway station. Now, as the summer darkness fell, and arm in arm the two of them trudged wearily into the village, a fine, penetrating, mizzle of rain, more akin to a dank November evening than one in late July, conspired to make the night its own.

For Claire, as they left the railway station, turned up Station Lane and began walking towards the High Street, it was with a decided sense of _déjà vu_, but only slightly so. After all, she had been to Downton but once, and then only to the abbey. This had been at Max's request, but in reality at the invitation of his uncle and aunt, the earl and countess of Grantham. That, of course, had been in the summer of last year, when, despite the difficulties of travel in wartime, Claire had made the gruelling journey - some seven hours by train - all the way from Devon up here to Yorkshire, in order to attend the wedding of Max's cousin, The Honourable Robert Crawley, to Miss Saiorse Branson, Rob and Max's Irish cousin, the only daughter of Max's Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil.

As for Max, he himself had been to Downton but twice before tonight.

* * *

The first occasion had been some four years ago, at Christmas 1937, when the Schönborns, Friedrich and Edith along with their two sons, Max then aged fifteen, and his young brother Kurt aged just four, had all travelled over to England and on to Yorkshire for the festive season. At the time, and indeed until very shortly before they left Austria for England, it had been intended that they would fly from Berlin's Tempelhof airport, just as Max and his father had done the previous year, back in the summer of 1936, when they had flown to England before travelling onto the Isle of Man for the TT in which Max's Uncle Tom was then racing. However, given the worsening political situation in Germany, Friedrich had suggested that it might be for the best if the Schönborns reconsidered their travel arrangements.

And this matter had remained undecided until but a few weeks before they were due to fly to England, when, there had come news of an appalling air crash; one which had claimed the lives of the entire grand ducal family of Hess Darmstadt while they were flying from Germany to England. Following hearing news of the tragedy, as it had been reported on _Radio Wien_, the Schönborns had taken the decision to change their plans and to travel to Downton by train and boat instead. As Edith, herself a qualified pilot, had remarked at the time, while sadly accidents could and did occur on both land and at sea, one's chances of surviving an air crash were decidedly less favourable; as the disaster which had befallen the airship _Hindenburg _earlier in the year, and now the terrible tragedy of what had occurred in thick fog over Ostend in Belgium, both only served to confirm.

* * *

The second time Max had come to Downton had been but a matter of weeks before Claire's own trip up here. This was in the aftermath of the sinking of the RMS _Lancastria. _That had been just over a year ago, in June 1940, at which time thousands of people, both military personnel, able bodied as well as the sick and wounded, and civilians, men, women, and children, had lost their lives, when the requisitioned Cunard liner had been sunk by German dive-bombers, off the west coast of France, close to St. Nazaire. Friedrich, Edith and their two boys had been on board the upper deck of the ship when it had been hit, before listing heavily to starboard, capsizing, and then sinking, all in little more than twenty minutes.

In the aftermath of the sinking, a scene of carnage and chaos, it had been assumed that, along with thousands of others, Edith and Kurt had perished in the disaster. In this heart-rending belief, Friedrich and Max had refugeed here to England on board the Orient Line's SS. _Oronsay, _landing at Plymouth where they had been arrested as enemy aliens and put in gaol. With Matthew having been telephoned by Friedrich and told the dreadful news of what had befallen them, Matthew had managed, albeit not without some difficulty, to secure their release And it was in these sad circumstances that Max and Claire had first met, on the platform of the railway station at Wrangaton, down in Devonshire, when Max and his father had been on their way to Downton, with nothing more in the way of possessions than the borrowed clothes in which they stood up in. And for Max and Claire, it had been love at first sight.

* * *

It was several weeks later, during which time Max and Claire had written back and forth endlessly, as well as telephoned each other when they could, that at Rob and Saiorse's wedding, right in the middle of the Marriage Service, held in the ancient parish church of St. Mary, that the unexpected had happened. A miracle of sorts; although it was not precisely the time of year to be celebrating the Resurrection. Nonetheless, at the risk of being thought blasphemous that is precisely what had happened. For, just as the Reverend Davis had asked the assembled congregation if there was any just cause or impediment why Robert and Saiorse should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, at that precise moment, along with the dog they had rescued from the sea during the sinking of the _Lancastria,_ as if risen from the dead, Edith and young Kurt had walked into the church and to an ecstatic welcome from one and all.

* * *

Here in Downton, save for the constant pitter-patter of falling drops, what Max and Claire noticed most were the darkness and also the silence. For, while the gas lamps were lit, with their blackout shields affixed, they gave but little glow and not even a sliver of light peeped from any of the windows of the cottages on Station Lane or indeed elsewhere. Something with which Ezra Atkinson, the local ARP Warden, would have been well pleased. With the miserable weather, it was scarcely to be wondered at that there was no-one about; both Station Lane and the High Street were deserted and, as Max and Claire walked on through he village, there was no sign of life. None whatsoever.

* * *

Some distance further on, Max came to an involuntary stand. In fading light, he took in a scene of utter devastation; a wilderness of already weed grown rubble, blackened, fallen masonry, smashed glass, and charred beams.

"What is it?" asked Claire. A moment later, she had her answer.

"Where my grandmother lived before ... The Dower House. Or, rather, what's left of it," said Max softly.

Claire nodded.

In the gathering gloom of the summer's night, the stench of what had happened here - an acrid smell of burning - still hung over the place. One of fire blackened brick, burnt wood, and worse. Before them stood a smoke blackened shell; all that remained of the fine, eighteenth century, slate roofed, red brick, sash windowed Dower House, where Max's widowed grandmother, Cora, the Dowager countess of Grantham, had lived until but a matter of weeks ago.

Several generations of Crawley dowagers had preceded Cora's own occupation of the place, where she had lived ever since 1931, following the death of her husband Robert, earl of Grantham, Max's grandfather - not that he had ever known him. However, Cora's tenancy of the Dower House had been cut short.

Brutally so.

For, in a night of unimaginable horror, a burning German bomber, shot to pieces over the Victoria Dock in Kingston upon Hull, its pilot trying desperately to find a field on which to land his crippled machine, had clipped the spire of St. Mary's Church, Downton. Spinning out of control, the 'plane had crashed down on the Dower House. In so doing, it had given the villagers a taste of the nightly horrors which had been inflicted on the hapless inhabitants of London's East End in what had come to be known as the Blitz, recently over, and to which both Max and Claire could attest. Given the close proximity of Crawley House, where Max's parents and young brother were now living for the duration of the war, to the parish church, had the pilot of the Heinkel not been executing a turn eastwards when it hit the church spire, then undoubtedly the burning bomber would have come down on Crawley House.

* * *

Claire squeezed her young husband's arm, knowing that, even though he had met his grandmother on but a few occasions, she was the only grandparent he had ever known - had been especially dear to him. As for Claire, she had met the Dowager Countess at Rob and Saiorse's wedding; a singularly brief encounter. For, before they had said more than a handful of words, Claire noting that, even after all these years, a lifetime spent in her adopted country, the Dowager Countess still spoke with an American accent, Danny Branson, Max's Irish cousin, claimed his grandmother for a dance.

Thereafter, while Danny squired his grandmother around the dance floor, Max and Claire had made their way outside the abbey. Well away from the hullabaloo of the wedding festivities, in the peace and tranquillity of Downton's Rose Garden, going down on one knee, Max von Schönborn, a scion of one of Austria's oldest families, had asked Claire Barton, the eldest daughter of an English tenant farmer, to become his wife.

* * *

A short walk along the High Street, brought them to the _Grantham Arms_. It too was in darkness, but from the Public Bar the murmur of voices and the chink of glasses spilled out onto the street. A moment later, a man lurched unsteadily out of the archway at the side of the inn from where he had been relieving himself on the cobbles in the jigger, and all but cannoned into Max. Taken unawares, unthinking, concerned only for Claire, Max cried out in German.

"Achtung!

"Ey up! Wat's that yer said?"

Fortunately, after several pints of _Sam Smiths, _young Walter - Wally - Robinson was somewhat worse the wear for drink, otherwise an extremely unpleasant incident might well have ensued. As it was, still buttoning up his flies, murmuring something obscene about a _bliddy furriner_, Robinson staggered off into the night.

"Are you all right, Claire?" Max asked.

"I'm fine. What about you?"

Max nodded.

A matter of minutes later and they found themselves walking past the dark stone bulk of the parish church; its once tall spire now reduced to a broken, shattered stump, as a result of it being hit by the falling German bomber.

"Not far now".

Claire nodded.

She swallowed hard.

As well she might.

After all, her first encounter with Max's mother, after their elopement and runaway marriage was not one she wished to remember. It had taken place in a dimly lit corridor of St. Thomas's Hospital, London where Max had been admitted the day after they had been married, following a severe haemorrhage in the joint of his left knee. After Claire had telephoned the abbey to let Max's parents know what had happened, having travelled post haste up to London from Downton, when she and Claire had met, Edith had been withering in what she had to say, regarding what she saw as the young couple's unpardonable deceit. Only the fact that Max was just about to begin the long, debilitating, decidedly unpleasant business of a blood transfusion, as well as the fact that they were in a hospital, where it would have been unseemly to argue, had stopped Edith from losing her temper with the young woman who was now her daughter-in-law.

* * *

**Parish Church of All Hallows-By-The-Tower, London, Saturday, 14th September**** 1940.**

Max had insisted that the cheque for £200-00 which Rob had given him to help Claire and he get married must be used for things which they really needed, or which were practical. For a start paying a deposit on the flat in Whitechapel, then buying a few sticks of furniture ...  
"Such as?" Claire had asked.

"Well, a double bed wouldn't go amiss!" For someone who, at times, could be infuriatingly cocksure, realising what he had just said, or rather what it implied, Max blushed, delightfully so, and in the process, earned himself a gentle kiss.

Being down-to-earth, _commonsensical_ was how her own late mother had once described her, Claire had agreed with what Max proposed wholeheartedly. And not just about the necessity of buying a double bed.

So, when they had wed in the Church of All Hallows By The Tower, with Rob as Max's Best Man and, along with the elderly verger, also acting as one of the two witnesses required to make the marriage legal, it was Max's own signet ring, made for a boy from a vanished world, adjusted to fit, which Max had slipped onto Claire's finger.

* * *

**St. Thomas's Hospital, Lambeth, London, Tuesday, 17th September 1940.**

Sick with worry, fingers laced together, her hands placed demurely in her lap, staring ahead of her at the white tiled wall, Claire sat wondering how Max was faring. Seated beside her in the hospital corridor, Edith saw that on the fourth finger of Claire's left hand she was wearing Max's signet ring, bearing upon it the coat-of-arms of the Schönborns.

The ring had been a present to Max from his parents, given to him on his sixteenth birthday, and since that day it had never once left his finger. Now it had. In itself, it was of no particular consequence but, for Edith, still smarting from what she saw as an unforgivable betrayal, the sight of Max's ring on the young woman's finger rankled. A reminder, if ever one was needed, that what had been done, could not be undone. A moment later, Edith gave voice to her thoughts.

"If this cannot be gainsaid, and seeing you wearing my son's ring so openly on your finger, I doubt very much that it can, I suppose we shall have to make the best of things. Now for a few home truths. I am very well aware that my son can be wilful, but to speak plainly, I believe you to have been the instigator of this_ mésalliance_ ..."

* * *

**Crawley House, Downton, Yorkshire, July 1941.**

They had now reached the front gate of Crawley House. No lights were visible but, given the blackout, that was hardly surprising. All the same, the house looked to be completely deserted.

"No-one's home. Obviously your parents must have heard I was coming and decided to go out".

Max laughed.

"Where to?"  
"I don't know. Where we changed trains for the last time. Ripon, was it?"  
"At this time of night? What about Kurt? Nonsense! _Courage mon brave_!" Max said, gently squeezing her arm.

Claire ghosted a smile.

"Forget your _courage, _what I need is a stiff gin! Mother always swore by it!"

"Did she, now? I wish I'd met her".

"She'd have approved of you. I know she would".

Max chuckled.

"More than your father does?"  
"I told you ..."  
"Yes, I know you did. His bark's worse than his bite".

"It is. You'll see when we go down to the farm".

"And when will that be?"  
"Sometime next year. It all rather depends ..."  
"On what?"  
"The war, I suppose. That and whether we can afford the fare".

* * *

Max pushed hard on the wrought iron gate. The hinges were rusty and squealed their protest. The gate swung back. A moment later, arm in arm, they were walking up the path which led to the front door. Max made to grasp hold of the knocker but there was no need for, as they reached the front door, it swung silently open on hinges which were obviously well oiled, revealing beyond a darkened hall, the electric light extinguished because of the blackout regulations.

A man appeared framed in the doorway, holding a heavily shaded oil lamp in his left hand, while holding out his right in friendly greeting.

"My dear, dear boy".

"Hello, Papa". Max put down the suitcase. His father did likewise with the lamp, setting it down on a small table beside the door. The two men shook hands; Claire not failing to notice that it was a firm handshake; akin to the kind her own father always gave when he had closed on a deal down in the market at Ugborough.

So then, perhaps ...

"Papa, this is Claire ... my wife".

Friedrich smiled.

"I'm very pleased to see you my dear. Although I'd forgotten ... just how pretty you are. How are you? A tiring journey, no doubt?"

Claire returned her father-in-law's smile. Saw the tears in his eyes.  
"Well, thank you, Herr Schönborn. Yes, it was. Very".

"So, I bid you welcome to Crawley House".

Behind Max's father, there was movement in the shadows.

The woman stepped into view.

Max smiled broadly.

"Hello, Mama". He leaned forward and kissed his mother lightly on the cheek.

Edith likewise smiled. Nodded curtly at Claire.

"My very own darling! So you're here at last! You must ... the both of you ... be very tired. Oh, just look at the weather! Now, come in, close the door, and get warm. Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, tea would be very nice, thank you," replied Claire.

It was all very matter-of-fact but a welcome of sorts nonetheless. However, before Edith could say anything further, from the top of the stairs there came an excited shout, followed by the sound of footsteps pounding down the staircase.

"**Max**!"

Claire saw her husband kneel down on the tiled floor and open wide his arms. A moment later, barefoot, clad in a pair of blue and white striped pyjamas, a pint sized version of Max flung his arms around his neck.

"Kurt! I've missed you so much!" Max hugged his little brother to him, covering his face in kisses.

"I missed you too".

"Really?"  
"Yes, really! Did you think I wouldn't?"

"No!"

"But it's been months and months. Why haven't you come before?"

"I wanted to but, you know last year, I wasn't very well and couldn't travel. And then, well these days, I have to work ..."  
"I know".  
"You do?"  
"Yes, Mama told me".

Max looked up at his mother; saw her nod her head.

"Kurt, there's someone here I want you to meet. This ... this is Claire".

Kurt looked up at the young woman standing beside his adored older brother.

"Hello," he said doubtfully, as if he had never spoken the word before.  
"Hello". Claire smiled down at the little boy.

"Are you ... my sister-in-law?"

Hearing this, Max had to smile. Last year, Mama had written and told him just how proud Kurt was to have become a brother-in-law and to have acquired a big sister.

"Well, to be honest, I never thought about it until now. But, yes, I suppose I am".

"So ... what do I call you?"  
"Why don't you call me Claire?"

Kurt smiled.

"May I? Really?"  
"Of course".

"Claire?"  
"Yes?"  
"May I ask you something?"

Claire nodded her head.

"What is it?"

"Do you love Max very much?"

"Yes, I do. Very much indeed".

With Max still kneeling on the tiled floor, Claire looked down at her husband, and gave him a radiant smile.

Edith had seen that look once before. It was one of complete and heartfelt devotion. She had seen it first when she had arrived at St. Thomas's Hospital up in London to find Claire sitting beside Max's bed. Not trusting to her voice, Edith instead looked down at Kurt.

"As for you, young man, it's high time you were in bed and fast asleep".

**Author's Note:**

Second Empire - the period of French history from 1852-70 when France was ruled by Louis Napoleon III.

Peppercorn rent - a very low or nominal rent.

As to what became of the saturnine Thomas Barrow, see my story _The White Cliffs of Dover_.

The air crash which killed the entire grand ducal family of Hesse Darmstadt is a long forgotten tragedy. It occurred on 16th November 1937 when, in thick fog, _en route_ to attend the wedding in England of the grand duke's younger brother, the 'plane in which the grand duke, his wife (then heavily pregnant) their two young sons, and others were travelling, hit a factory chimney near Ostend in Belgium. The subsequent Belgian inquiry into the cause of the crash suggested that the pilot was attempting to land because the grand duchess - a sister of Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh - had gone into premature labour.

The German airship _Hindenburg_ caught fire - the cause is still a matter for debate - and crashed as she was coming into land at Lak_e_hurst Naval Air Station, New Jersey on 6th May 1937. The disaster brought a sudden and terrifying end to the era of airship passenger travel.

For what happened to the Schönborns on board the _Lancastria_, see _The White Cliffs of Dover_.

ARP -Air Raid Precaution.

Sam Smiths - founded in 1758, Samuel Smiths of Tadcaster is the oldest brewery in Yorkshire.

Jigger - Yorkshire slang for an alleyway.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Funchal

**Crawley House, Downton, Yorkshire, England, July 1941.**

While Edith went upstairs to settle Kurt back down in bed, here in the quiet of the sitting room, with Max and Claire, holding hands, sitting side by side on the sofa, Friedrich sat back down in his chair next to the fireplace. For a moment no-one spoke. Then the ornate clock on the mantle piece chimed a quarter past the hour.

"Is it that late already, Papa? Evidently disbelieving, Max looked at his watch. Seeing him do so, his father smiled.

"No, my boy, it's not even ten o'clock. That blasted - I do beg your pardon my dear - thing never keeps to time. Max may remember the clock being a gift from his Aunt Mary". Friedrich grimaced. Realising some explanation was now called for, he turned to Claire. "Max's aunt gave it to us after we arrived here last year. One of her well meaning cast-offs. Even then, Max's mother wasn't much impressed with it. Indeed, I rather suspect that, if it were not for her sister missing the clock the next time she calls and asking where it is, Edith would happily send it over to the Village Hall along with all the other rubbish we've brought down from the attics, in time for next week's jumble sale in aid of the War Effort!"

"I see". Claire nodded her head.

She had met Max's Aunt Mary, the countess of Grantham, but once. That had been at Robert and Saiorse's wedding and to be perfectly frank, Claire had not much cared for her. But then the countess came from an entirely different world to the one which Claire herself knew.

While Claire had been made very welcome at Downton Abbey, particularly by the earl of Grantham, Max's Uncle Matthew, his wife the countess, while punctilious in her observance of the customary courtesies expected on such occasions, had, nonetheless, made it abundantly clear that she did not approve of Claire's involvement with her nephew, Max. Indeed, she had even gone so far as to ask Claire what time her train left Downton on Sunday, which was the day after the wedding. In the circumstances, Claire was only surprised that Max's aunt had not offered to run her down to the station herself, in order to see that she did not spend one moment longer either at Downton or else in Max's company than could be helped. When she had told Max of her suspicions, he had laughed at her; said she was imagining things, and besides, Aunt Mary didn't even know how to drive.

As for Max's parents, his father, whom Claire had met before when he and Max had stopped off at the farm on their way up to Downton from Plymouth in order to collect Danny and take him with them back to Yorkshire, had been charming. Not so his wife who, when Claire was introduced to her at Downton after her miraculous return from France, while very grateful for all that Claire and her family had done for Max and his father, had, nonetheless been extremely wary of the young woman who seemed to have so captured the heart of her elder son.

In truth, save for the earl of Grantham, Claire had found only Max's Uncle Tom, the newspaper editor, and his wife, Max's Aunt Sybil, to be entirely welcoming of her. This she put down to the fact that it had been Claire herself who had looked after their son Danny, following his unfortunate encounter with the two soldiers from Northern Ireland on the Plymouth train. And also because Max's aunt was a nurse, and Claire intended to go to medical school in order to become a doctor. All this apart, they were down-to-earth, sensible people and Claire had warmed to them immediately.

On hearing what his father had to say about the clock on the mantle piece, Max laughed. It sounded so like his Aunt Mary. Yet, despite the fact that Max knew his mother and aunt were not close, was aware that for nearly all of their lives they had been - what was the word Claire had used the other day when she and he had a slight difference of opinion - _loggerheads_, yes, that was it – at loggerheads, Max still had a very soft spot for his aristocratic aunt.

With still no sign of Mama, Max began to wonder - then dismissed the thought from his mind as unworthy - if his mother was deliberately finding things to keep her busy and out of the way upstairs, until it was time for all of them to retire for the night. Nonetheless, he now put his suspicion into words.

"I wonder what's keeping Mama?"

"What with your arrival, I expect Kurt is proving rather difficult to settle. This afternoon, just as soon as he was back from school, he was up at the window in here, looking out for you, even though Mama told him you wouldn't be arriving until tonight. You must know, your letters to him apart, he's missed you dreadfully".

Claire smiled. Despite the difference in their respective ages, Max being ten years older than Kurt, she knew that the two brothers were very close. Like Max's Aunt Mary, she had met young Kurt but once before tonight, albeit only briefly, again at Robert and Saiorse's wedding. Then, the little boy had been far more interested in meeting his English and Irish cousins; that and staying close to his parents which, given what he had just been through was hardly surprising, while at the time, Claire had spent all of her waking moments - and others too - with Max. But what she had seen of Kurt, together with what Max had told her of him, led her to believe that he was quite a handful.

Max nodded.

"I missed him too, Papa. Very much".

"I'm sure you did". His father smiled; knowing, as he did, that, prior to Max and Claire's elopement, the longest Max and Kurt had ever been apart had been those awful few weeks last year, when each believed the other lost when the _Lancastria_ went down off the French coast; the shock of which had caused Kurt to lose, albeit temporarily, the power of speech.

"So, tell me, how have you been these last few months?"

"I wrote and told …"  
"Yes, yes, I know what you said in your letters, and on the telephone to Mama, but now, while she's upstairs, here, face to face, tell me, no further …"  
"No, Papa. At least not for the time being. Claire sees to it that I take the very greatest care of myself".

On hearing this, Friedrich smiled. While he had not been so opposed to the idea of Max marrying as had Edith, all the same, he had not been entirely sure of the wisdom of Max and Claire's runaway marriage. But now, seeing them here together, it was obvious to him just how well suited they were.

"I'm very glad to hear it".

"That is, other than a couple of aching joints now and then. I suppose it must be all the walking I do up in London. And taking the Underground, up and down those escalators and stairs every day. No, to be honest, Papa, I've never felt better". Max turned; smiled shyly at Claire.

"One of the many benefits of married life!" chuckled his father.

"Yes, well, er …" Max blushed furiously.

* * *

Noticing him do so, Claire had to smile. It was one of the many things which she found so endearing about darling Max. In no sense was he a prude, indeed quite the reverse, at times being content to wander stark naked around their shabby little flat in Whitechapel. And the intimate part of their marriage was far more satisfying than that shared, perhaps _not_ shared, between many other couples. Yet, as far as Max was concerned, and for Claire too, that side of their relationship was something intensely private, the secrets of which remained privy to themselves.

Given what he had freely admitted to her on the morning after they had made love for the very first time, both of them lying pleasurably naked in his bed at Downton - that being his lack of experience in matters sexual - it was a continuing source of amazement to Max, that he could arouse such levels of desire and passion in Claire. After all, both of them had come to the other as innocents. Not that this had caused them any difficulty in their relationship. Amusement perhaps, but never awkwardness. Secure in their love for each other, they had grown together into a physical union which was both comfortable and satisfying, one in which neither partner was afraid to experiment; to find hitherto undreamed of ways of giving untold pleasure to each other.

At work Max was known to be affable, companionable, and well-disposed. Nonetheless he became decidedly uncomfortable when some of his colleagues in the SOE made suggestive comments about the undoubted _perks_ of having _a little wife_ waiting for him at home, wondering aloud what she had _in store_ for him, and if she attended to all his _needs and wonts_. To be fair, most of the ribbing was amiable and harmless, born out of envy, given the fact that the section of the SOE in which Max worked numbered but a handful of chaps, all of whom, save for Max, were in their late twenties, unmarried, and doubtless frustrated sexually.

However, there is always one individual who carries things too far, who does not know when to desist, and Herbert Lowther was one of these. Where Max's other colleagues were merely envious, Lowther was jealous. Where their ribaldry was good natured, that of Lowther had an edge to it, which was verging on the spiteful. When, finally, a few weeks ago Max had lost his customary cool and told Lowther in no uncertain terms to mind his mouth and to _put a sock in it_, a phrase which he had learned from Rob, Lowther had played the aggrieved party. Couldn't Herr **von** Schönborn take a joke? Because that was all it had been.

That was another of Lowther's little witticisms, referring to Max as Herr **von** Schönborn, when he knew it annoyed him. However, from the low snigger Lowther now gave, as he walked past Max's desk on his way out of the room, in order, he said, to find some fresh air, it was perfectly clear that what he had implied about Claire a few moments earlier had not been intended as a joke.

Had Max been prone to violence, which by nature, let alone the constraints placed on him by his haemophilia, he was not, he would have upped and floored Lowther with a left hook worthy of the Whitechapel Windmill, Jack "Kid" Berg.

* * *

This evening, here at Crawley House things were rather different, for seeing Max blush, his father had the innate good sense to change the subject.

"Now, you two, what about some tea?"

"I'll do that if you'll show me where the tea things are …" began Claire.

"Why, that's very kind of you, my dear, but you must be absolutely exhausted". Friedrich stood up. "And, besides, if I can't make a cup of tea for my son and daughter-in-law …"

Seeing that Max had also stood up, Friedrich broke off what he was saying. Watched as Max moved to the mantelpiece where he picked up the framed photograph standing beside the clock. The picture showed three smiling boys, their arms around each other's shoulders, Max standing between his cousins, Danny Branson and Robert Crawley. Beneath the photograph, written in Max's father's hand, were the words: _Wurstelprater, Wien, August 1933._ A lifetime ago. Or so it seemed now. Max handed the photograph to Claire.

"There you are, taken, when I was ten, in the amusement park in Vienna. See the ferris wheel there in the background?" Claire nodded. Max turned; looked at his father. "Papa, has there been any word of Danny?"

"Well, now you come to mention it …"

* * *

**Harbour, Funchal, Madeira, June 1941.**

Here on Madeira which, save for a brief period of occupation by the British during the Napoleonic era, had belonged to Portugal ever since the island's discovery in the early fifteenth century, out on the sun kissed, windswept granite mole of Funchal harbour, twenty one year old Danny Branson was sitting cross legged, gazing intently out to sea.

Behind him in the harbour, the port was a hive of activity, with several steamers tied up alongside the quay loading and unloading cargoes, while out in the wide sweep of the bay others rode at anchor. Among these was the SS. _Carvalho Araujo _belonging to the Empresa Insulana de Navegacao of Lisbon, and a frequent visitor to the island. Now, with the outbreak of the Second World War, both sides of the liner's once pristine black hull had large white letters painted on them, proclaiming to one and all that the _Carvalho Araujo_ was a Portuguese vessel, and thus the property of a neutral country.

Having grown up in Blackrock, a suburb on the south side of Dublin, bordering the Irish Sea, Danny was used to the many different moods of the ocean: one moment calm and tranquil, the surf breaking gently on the seashore beneath the homely house in Idrone Terrace, at other times, especially in the autumn when the barometer in the hall had fallen low and a hard nor-easter was blowing in, windswept and storm wracked, the waters by turn a vivid turquoise blue, emerald green, or more often than not, dark slate grey.

And on the beautiful, infinitely remote island of Madeira, surrounded by thousands of square miles of open ocean, for Danny Branson the seemingly boundless waters of the Atlantic were an endless source of fascination. For here too the sea had infinite guises. There were long, languid summer days when the sky was a cloudless blue and beneath it the ocean glistened like quicksilver, the vast swell of the Atlantic a flat, unbroken calm akin to the still waters of a mill pond. On days like these one could scarcely credit that in winter, in gale force winds, and beneath icy, stinging squalls of rain, mountainous waves rolled in from off the open sea to break with a thunderous roar in streaming torrents of freezing grey water, crashing against the self same, sun baked stonework on which Danny was now sitting.

* * *

Despite the comparative shortness of time which had elapsed since his arrival in Madeira - that had been in July of last year - Danny Branson - o irlandês _the Irishman - _was already well known in and around Funchal, due in no small measure to the part he had played in saving the life of Flora, Colonel John Blantyre's six year old daughter. This had come about when ropes securing a load of empty wine casks had parted, and a succession of heavy barrels rolled off an unattended dray, crashing down onto the quayside, close to where the little girl was standing. At the time, having his back to his daughter, and deep in discussion with an agent of the Madeira Wine Company, her father had been singularly unaware of what had happening. However, up on the deck of the SS. _Pedro,_ the tramp steamer which had brought Danny all the way out here from Dublin, the vessel then undergoing much delayed repairs to one of her engines, the young Irishman had a grandstand view of what was unfolding.

* * *

**Harbour, Funchal, August 1940.**

Seeing the load on the dray shifting, catching sight of the little girl standing but a short distance away, and like the man he assumed must be her father, quite oblivious to the danger she was in, Danny sprinted down the gangplank of the _Pedro_ and, without a thought for his own safety, in the nick of time, pulled the child out of harm's way. In due course, Danny's quick thinking and spirited action was to earn him the undying gratitude of Colonel Blantyre, the little girl's father. For, on finding out what had happened, once he had satisfied himself that his young daughter was completely unharmed, the colonel had come up the gangplank of the _Pedro_ and sought Danny out, in order to thank him personally for what he had done.

* * *

**Reid's Hotel, Funchal.**

Later that same day, Blantyre had taken Danny for a drink over at Reid's Hotel which stood amid several acres of verdant gardens, high up on the cliffs, overlooking the harbour, immediately to the west of the town. Proud owner of the Tobermorey Estate, named for the place on the Isle of Mull off the west coast of Scotland from where Blantyre's forbears had hailed, the colonel's estate was one of the finest vineyards on Madeira and lay some miles to the northwest of Funchal.

With Danny having inherited his father's ready smile and easy charm, the usually dour Blantyre had taken to him immediately and, on learning that the young Irishman was all but destitute, had offered Danny a job. In due course, Blantyre even went so far as to iron out any difficulties there might otherwise have been with the Portuguese authorities regarding a penniless Irishman, lacking the necessary papers and permits, settling on Madeira.

Here on the steps of the hotel, on parting company, the two men had shaken hands, Colonel Blantyre to be driven into town and then back out to his estate; Danny to return to the harbour and the _Pedro_, there to tell Carmen what he hoped she would accept as good news about the job he had just been offered. Whether she would take to the idea of settling here on Madeira remained to be seen, but it did not have to be forever. Only long enough in fact in order for Danny to earn sufficient monies to enable all of them to return home. But when that came to pass, it would not be to Spain; for, given what was now happening there under the Fascist regime of General Francisco Franco, given Carmen's involvement with the Republican cause, that was no longer an option. So, it would have to be to Ireland. At least for the time being. Failing that, there remained the possibility of South America. After all, ships sailing that way called in here at Madeira. And, of course, down there in South America, they spoke Spanish. Well, some of the countries did; quite which, Danny was not entirely certain.

"By the way, laddie, you do ride?" Blantyre had asked disarmingly.

With a fleeting thought of his Aunt Mary, Danny shook his head.

"No, sir".

Colonel Blantyre smiled.

"Well, I never. I thought all Irishmen did. Then, laddie, best you learn".

"For sure?"

The colonel nodded.

"Perhaps I should explain. Hereabouts there are few roads and, except on horseback, much of the estate is well nigh inaccessible. So, my man Fernandes will meet you in the morning. Eight o'clock sharp. Down there by the cathedral". The colonel pointed with his cane towards a distant bell tower.

"How will I know him, your man?"  
The colonel permitted himself the briefest of dry laughs.

"Why, he'll have two horses of course. His own and one for you. Don't worry, laddie, I'll see to it he's told you need to be shown how to sit a horse!"

A moment later, still chuckling, seated sedately in the back of his motor, the colonel was driven away down into Funchal.

* * *

**Harbour, Funchal, June 1941.**

It was after a very early breakfast of bread, ham, eggs, and coffee that Danny had come down here to the harbour at first light, to await the arrival of the government steamer from Lisbon, bringing with it, hopefully, a cargo of much needed machinery parts for the estate. For, even though Portugal was a neutral country, out here on what some thought of as the edge of the world, with the exigencies of the war, it was becoming increasingly difficult to obtain all manner of supplies. The government steamer also brought the mails and Danny hoped that there might be letters from Da and Ma in distant Dublin.

Back in July 1940, following Rob and Saiorse's wedding, leaving in something of a hurry, Danny had asked his Aunt Edith to explain to the rest of the family the reasons behind his sudden departure from Downton, from England, and thence from Ireland. Eventually, however, he had plucked up the courage to write to his parents and tell them why he had done what he had. When the first letters from Dublin had reached him here in Madeira, Da had been understanding, Ma decidedly less so.

* * *

Chewing on a piece of sugar cane, Danny spied far out to sea, in the direction of Porto Santo, a faint wisp of black smoke and beneath it a smudge of grey, announcing that the government steamer was at last nearing her destination. Turning his head, looking inland, his gaze passed swiftly over the ochre coloured tiled roofs and pastel washed walls of the houses and the churches, Danny looking for and picking out that dedicated to Santa Maria. Close by it, on the street of the same name, there was a small house ...

Danny smiled.

Now, on catching sight of the bell tower of the cathedral of Our Lady of the Assumption in Sé, something else attracted Danny's attention, in this case, a plume of white steam, marking the ascent of the train of the decrepit rack railway which ran from its rundown station at Pombol situated in the back streets of Funchal, up as far as the shrine of Nossa Senhora da Paz at Terreiro da Luta. Here was to be found the imposing statue of Our Lady, built as a votive thanksgiving by a local priest for the return of peace to Madeira following two attacks on the island by the Germans during the Great War.

Although it ran infrequently, and while at this distance he could not hear it, having seen the train several times, down here on the harbour wall Danny could make believe the sound of its wheezing exhaust as it snorted its way self importantly up the steep ascent, into the little wooden station at Monte, the elderly engine pushing ahead of it, for safety's sake, its single coach, chugging up the hillside on a constantly fierce gradient, bound eventually for the upper terminus at Terreiro. At this precise moment, the short train, which these days few people used, given how slow it was, let alone its ancient, limited accommodation - unpleasant in the heat of summer and freezing cold in the winter - was just approaching the cast iron bridge which carried it over a ravine and into the station at Monte, far up on the hillside overlooking Funchal, close in fact to the villa where in April 1922 the last emperor of Austria-Hungary had died in exile.

And just to the right of the station were the twin, domed, whitewashed towers and façade of the church of Nossa Senhora do Monte where, in a side chapel, the late emperor lay buried. Seeing the two towers, reminded Danny of the fact that when the business which had brought him down here to the harbour earlier this morning was concluded, there was something else which needed to be done, and which he had put off doing for some considerable time.

* * *

Many years ago, Da had said that he would know when the time was right and the moment had now come. It was not the life which he had expected but, nonetheless, all the same, it was a good one; although quite what Da, and more importantly Ma, would have to say about it, when he wrote and told them, he could not begin to imagine At that moment, with the government steamer drawing ever nearer, something now struck Danny as incongruous, so much so that he laughed out loud; in the process drawing odd looks from several of the old fishermen sitting close by him mending their nets down on the quayside. While undoubtedly the most knowing of _The Three Musketeers_, at least where matters sexual were concerned, he would be the last of them to marry.

For, here in Funchal, on this bright summer's morning, what was exercising Danny Branson's febrile mind was his intention to see things between him and Carmen regularised, their relationship placed on a legal footing, and, in order to do this, he intended asking her, the woman to whom he had lost his virginity in Spain during the Civil War, and who was now the mother of their two small sons, Daniel aged three, and the baby, Tomás, to marry him.

However, so much in life is not at all straight forward and, in the matter now under consideration, Danny knew it was not simply going down on one knee and asking the age old question. He had to choose his time carefully, for there remained the possibility that Carmen would turn him down. Not because she found him in any way wanting. At least, Danny didn't think she did. Their relationship was both strong and deeply loving. All the same, Danny knew that Carmen, who was a few years older than he, had little truck with what she considered to be the fripperies and formalities of polite society and, much like Danny's mother, she cared not a fig either for social convention or for propriety.

So, while Danny did intend to ask Carmen to marry him, it would be when, to coin one of Da's phrases,_ the portents were propitious_. So it might be today, tomorrow, the following week, even next month.

But ask her he undoubtedly would.

And soon.

* * *

**Valencia, Capital of Republican Spain, November 1937.**

Danny had first met Carmen Garcia, the name she went by at the time, back in 1937, during the Spanish Civil War, while he was enlisted in the Irish Volunteers fighting for the Republicans and she serving as a nurse for the same cause. Their chance encounter had been in the aftermath of a Nationalist air-raid on Valencia, where Danny had seen first hand what modern weapons, unleashed on a defenceless city, did to its civilian population, whether able bodied or infirm, young or old.

It was as the Falange aeroplanes from Majorca soared away, their deadly work done, that, emerging from the makeshift shelter of the porch of a ruined house off the Plaza de La Virgen close to the cathedral, Danny heard the screams of a woman. Going in search of her, he had helped a distraught mother rescue her child from under the rubble of a collapsed building. A short while later, his face streaked with dirt, blood-stained, and covered in dust, cradling the little boy in his arms, he had met Carmen Garcia. Seeing the makeshift red cross on the front of her white blouse, in broken Spanish he had asked if she was a nurse. Carmen nodded; said, even though Danny did not fully understand her, that she would see the child received medical attention. That he should give the boy to her; all the while knowing, as she suspected the young Irishman did too, that the child was already dead.

Then, such is the way of things, in the chaos of the civil war, they had drifted apart, only to meet again a month or so later, this time in the snowbound fastness of the Pyrenees. In more ways than one, the increasingly bitter conflict had been an eye opener for the idealistic, softly spoken, young Irishman. Like so many others of his generation who, with the very best of intentions, had come out to Spain at the outbreak of the Civil War, Danny Branson found he had blundered naively into a brutal, violent conflict, the origins of which neither he, nor indeed the majority of those foreigners who had come here to fight comprehended, whether they were fighting alongside the Nationalist troops of General Francisco Franco or, as in the case of Danny and his pals, for the Republicans whose tatterdemalion cause had been lost long before the Irish Volunteers ever set foot on Spanish soil.

In January 1938, with the Nationalist forces fast closing in on the Republicans' mountain hideaway, Danny had no alternative but to leave Spain and return home to Ireland. Although he had asked Carmen to go with him, he was unaware that she was expecting his child. Perhaps he should have been. After all, thanks to Ma, he was hardly ignorant of the facts of life and neither he nor Carmen had taken any precautions to prevent her falling pregnant. Not that this was surprising for this was Catholic Spain and high in the Pyrenees, in the closing stages of the Civil War, condoms were not to be had. But, if at the time Carmen had known she was expecting Danny's child, she said nothing and when the time came for them to part, she had spurned his offer to take her with him. She would stay in Spain, and if necessary die here too, in the country of her birth.

_"Vaya con Dios," she said, before turning away, so that he should not see her tears._

And that, doubtless, would have been the end of it.

A classic tale of ships that pass in the night.

However, as things turned out, Fate had other plans, these involving a chance encounter between the sister of a Spanish sea captain and an English woman and her young son who, in June 1940, fleeing southwards from the relentless advance of the German army, a matter of days after the French government had capitulated, having made it over the Pyrenees from France and into Spain, had then, several weeks later, taken passage on a tramp steamer out of Bilbao, bound for Dublin.

On board the steamer, which down the years had sailed with all manner of cargoes both to and from Ireland, had been the captain's dark haired elder sister, together with her little boy, aged all of two years, named Daniel after his father whom, the woman explained to her fellow passenger, she had met in Spain during the Civil War. A young Irishman who had hailed from Dublin.

* * *

**On Board SS._ Pedro_, Bay of Biscay, July 1940.**

_"What was his name, the father of your little boy?"_

_"Danny. Danny Branson"._

_The other nodded. _

_"Why do you ask me, señora?_

_The steamer lurched, giving the English woman time to think before she answered. Then as the ship righted itself again, she reached for the bottle of wine. It was cheap, thin stuff, sour too, but nonetheless, she now poured out a generous measure into each of the two cracked glasses._

_"Here, I think you may have need of this," said Edith, evenly._

**Author's Note:**

For what happened to Danny down in Devonshire, see my story _The White Cliffs of Dover_.

SOE - the Special Operations Executive, into which, in my stories, Max is recruited following his arrival in England.

_Put a sock in it_ \- an English colloquialism meaning to desist from doing something.

Nicknamed the Whitechapel Windmill, Jack "Kid" Berg (1909-1991) of Jewish descent and born Judah Bergman in Stepney in the East End of London, became a British lightweight boxer. Between 1923 and 1936, Berg had 192 professional fights, winning 157 of them.

Reid's Hotel is still there in Funchal.

During the Great War, the Portuguese island of Madeira was attacked twice by German U-Boats, first in December 1916 and again a year later in December 1917. The first raid sank Allied shipping in the harbour while both attacks saw the bombardment of Funchal.

The statue of Our Lady at Terreiro da Luta, built for the reason given in the story, was unveiled in 1927.

After being in a parlous state of decay for many years, the rack railway between Funchal and Terreiro da Luta finally closed down in 1943.

For how it was the last emperor of Austria Hungary came to be exiled to Madeira, see my story _Alpine Interlude_.

Built in 1930, the SS _Carvalho Araujo _had a long career, sailing principally between Portugal, Madeira, and the Azores. She was scrapped in 1974.


End file.
